


Follow that White Boy

by viceprincipalpanch



Category: Book of Mormon -- Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 09:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceprincipalpanch/pseuds/viceprincipalpanch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting leads to a romance tested by the limitations posed by society and religion. 1960s historical AU with Cunnilungi (Elder Cunningham/Nabulungi) as the focal point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1959

" _I think I have read enough to give you an idea of what the Negro is after. He is not just seeking the opportunity of sitting down in a cafe where white people eat. He isn't just trying to ride on the same streetcar or the same Pullman car with white people. It isn't that he just desires to go to the same theater as the white people. From this, and other interviews I have read, it appears that the Negro seeks absorption with the white race. He will not be satisfied until he achieves it by intermarriage. That is his objective and we must face it. We must not allow our feelings to carry us away, nor must we feel so sorry for Negroes that we will open our arms and embrace them with everything we have."_

– Elder Mark E. Peterson,  _Race Problems – As They Affect the Church_ , 1954

* * *

**1959**

Arnold Cunningham's family has a nice car. He's not sure what kind it is – he's never really cared much for cars – but he knows that he likes driving in it. Maybe he drives badly, and maybe he has no sense of direction, but that doesn't mean he can't  _enjoy_  stop-starting his way through town.

Even if that  _does_  mean he finds himself in the less-than-familiar part of the place he calls home, and feels distinctly less at home just being there. Stopping the car, he glances about and tries to get his bearings. Okay. Not a familiar part of town. He can handle that. Maybe. Probably. Mostly, if there weren't so many people staring at him.

Colored people. Oh,  _dear_. He's far more out of his element than he first thought. He's sweating, now, and there's going to be stains under his arms, and this is a brand new  _shirt_ , and he wonders what Superman would do in such a situation—remembers how Superman isn't really a white man, just appears as one—realizes if Superman is sort of colored, then he shouldn't be afraid, because if he's nice, why shouldn't colored people be the same way?

So he carefully opens the door to the car, holding his breath as if he's taking the first steps onto a new planet (he pretends he is, because that's just a heck of a lot more  _fun_ ,) and steps onto the soil outside his familiar.

Not much different from his backyard, now that he thinks about it—the grass is as green, as tall, as well-kept as his own lawn is (and he should know, considering he's the one tasked with mowing it.) He pads around a bit, just to make sure that the ground feels the same. When it does, he looks back up with a wide grin.

A wide grin that is quickly wiped away when he realizes there are still people watching him—probably more people than before. His hands are already wringing themselves silly as he tries to figure out whether or not he should ask for directions back home, he tries to think of steps to take, but his mind just jumbles itself up. He spots a store nearby, though—a good first stop, he decides, on his way back home. Cautious and cautiously optimistic, Arnold heads towards it and tries to keep himself from staring too much.

"Uhnh…h-hello…? I'm just, uhmn, a-a bit  _lost_ …!" His voice, though normal for him, reverberates through the little shop and sounds much louder than he's used to. His head swivels around, coke-bottle glasses threatening to whip off his face and land on the floor, as he tries to find a clerk or at least a  _person_  to talk to, to ask for a little bit of help.

His gaze quickly falls on the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, sweeping the floor and, he realizes, watching him from beneath thick eyelashes. Flushing red like a late-harvested tomato, he tries to figure out if he's said anything else to her, or if he's even still alive—she's gorgeous, dark brown hair swept back into a bun, only the slightest wave to it left over from relaxing it, the slightest smile on her full lips as she goes about what is, he assumes, her job.

Her job. He should ask  _her_. Of course, that would require actually gaining the capacity to  _talk_ , which Arnold is quite sure he's lost ever since he caught sight of her. It is only the slightest thought – _colored girl, Arnold, colored girl_  – that gets him moving again, and he stumbles up to her, eyes wide behind thick lenses.

" _Uh_ —uh, ahnh, I-I'm—car—l-lost and, uh—" Stumbling over his words, he balls up the bottom of his shirt, untucking it from his pants without thinking. His eyes drift down her body before he reminds himself  _colored girl, Arnold, colored girl, pure thoughts, colored girl_ , and by that point he's practically having a fit, just trying to ask her for directions back home.

Brow furrowed with worry, she pauses in her sweeping and looks up at him. "Um…are you…okay, Mister?"

Her voice is melodic, sweet and pure to Arnold's ears, and he just lets loose an awkward bark of a laugh as he finally wobbles in place in front of her. Startled, she looks about, as if she's looking for someone,  _anyone_  else.

"Uh. Is there…someone  _with_  you, Mister?" Sucking in her lower lip – he catches sight of the action and stares unabashedly at her, just barely keeping himself from reaching out to touch her – she takes a few steps back. "I'm…gonna go get my  _father_ , okay? You just—just stay here, Mister."

He nods a few times, watches her go, and silently curses himself when she's gone. He acted like a  _moron_ , a state-certified  _moron_ , and now she's scared and he's embarrassed, all because he just wanted to talk to her, to maybe learn her name, to maybe someday touch her mouth—

_Colored girl, Arnold, pure thoughts anyway, but colored girl!_

By the time she returns, her father in tow, he's already scurrying out the door towards his car once again.  _Colored girl_. She was amazing, a beauty he hadn't seen amongst any of the girls he used to go to class with.  _Colored_. He wants to hold her close, maybe kiss her a little, maybe just talk.  _Colored!_

Instead, he just goes home, this time carefully memorizing the way back—that way, he can know the way to her once more.


	2. 1960

" _If that Negro is faithful all his days, he can and will enter the celestial kingdom. He will go there as a servant, but he will get celestial glory."_

– Elder Mark E. Peterson,  _Race Problems – As They Affect the Church_ , 1954

* * *

**1960**

"Uhnh, s-so, y'see, it's—if you  _wanted_  to, uhm, y-you  _could_  be a Mormon!"

The car is not as good as it used to be, but Arnold is still able to make it to the little store in the place outside his familiar—he found out early on that it was run by Mister Hutchison, who says his great-great-grandfather was named Mister  _Hatimbi_ , which is funny because it doesn't sound much like a name to him at  _all_  if he's to be perfectly frank and honest. At the same time, he finds it funny that he doesn't even know  _her_  name yet, and yet he know her father is Mark, and that every Friday he sits in  _his_  store that he owns all by  _himself_  (with his beautiful daughter's help, of course,) which is  _also_  funny because Arnold wasn't even aware Negros could  _do_  things like that.

He also wasn't aware that he could fall in love with one, but now, staring into her deep brown eyes, he can't imagine any way that anyone  _couldn't_ , especially  _her_.

"Do you even know what my name is, Mister Cunningham?" she says quietly, interrupting him. She blinks, head tilted to the side as she realizes his eyes are trained perfectly on hers—she's fairly sure it's not just a trick of magnification committed by his thick spectacles, but she can't be sure. "Mister…Cunningham…?"

He's been staring at her—he's been staring at her, and he didn't even notice. Jumping in his seat, he looks away and tries his hardest to collect his thoughts, because he's just noticed that he can see the strap of her  _brassiere_  peeking out of the neckline of her dress and oh dear Heavenly Father he doesn't want to have more of  _those_  urges, especially not when he's sitting across from the amazing Hutchison girl who he's not even supposed to  _know_.

"Mister Cunningham?"

" _Call me Arnold!_ " he shouts, standing suddenly but, surprisingly delicate and meek, sitting down again in an instant. " _Uhnh_ …hahm, um, s-sorry, m-my  _father_  says I need to, uh, work  _harder_  on being… _quiet_ , hahnh,  _yeah_ —"

She can't help but giggle, and it sounds as clear as a bell, or as the night sky, or as any number of clichés that Arnold has heard maybe in school or maybe on the radio, and he's mesmerized by her smile. This time, though, the touch he usually always imagines is suddenly, frighteningly real—her hand is on his wrist, thin fingers ( _bird bones, like a wishbone,_  he thinks) resting just above his pulse. He wonders for a moment if she can feel how the blood is pounding through his veins, headed in one of two directions which is immensely distressing when all he wants is to slow down, to take a deep breath, and to…

To pull her close and kiss her.

It's only when he feels her tongue press against his lips that he realizes he's actually done just that—she's leaning halfway across the table already and he  _still_  doesn't know her name,  _still_  can see the strap of her brassiere, her hand  _still_  resting over the hard-drumming beat of his heart on his sleeve, and all he was there for was to talk a little about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints but  _oh well_ , because there is a  _girl_  kissing him.

A girl. A  _real_  girl, real and sweaty, hair curling from the heat of the room (it  _has_  always been that humid, but the heat intensifies as their lips lock) and falling into her eyes. A real girl who he wasn't ever supposed to know, perfect and sweet and he  _wants_  her but he has to pull away, tears starting to form in his eyes as he starts to sniffle.

"I-I gotta... _uhnh_ , huuuhnh, I-I'm  _sorry_ , uh, M-Miss—" He knocks over the chair he's spent the last hour in in his hurry to leave, running a hand through his own hair, which is starting to spring back into curls in the damp air. "I-I can't—"

Yet he lingers, eyes on her hands as they go up to her mouth, and he wonders if her cheeks are as hot as his own are. They stand across the table from each other, frozen, chests rising and falling almost in unison. Arnold doesn't want to leave – doesn't  _ever_  want to leave – but he knows he has to, because he can hear Mister Hutchison starting out from his back room—the sound of chair hitting linoleum must have tipped him off to something going on. "I-I'm—"

"Arnold." She bites down on her lip, eyes downcast as she drops her hands to her sides. "And—and I'm  _Nadine_. Just…thought you might want to know. Mister Cunningham."

" _Arnold_ ," he insists, looking up at her shyly. A few more moment of fidgeting pass until he hears her father's footsteps—his signal to leave.

She watches him go, suddenly sad—but only for a moment. The grin that spreads onto her face as he drives off stays there for the rest of the day.


	3. 1961

_"If the White man who belongs to the chosen seed mixes his blood with the seed of Cain (those with dark skin), the penalty, under the law of God, is death on the spot. This will always be so."_

– Brigham Young

* * *

**1961**

Arnold Cunningham's car isn't as nice as the one his parents had, but he makes do. He has a job now—a real job, with a company, though he's still working in the mail room rather than the big offices like he's sure his father would want him too. He makes enough that he can afford near-nightly trips out of his humdrum, typical home into what was once unfamiliar territory, and enough that he can have a ring, however small, sitting in his pocket just in  _case_.

When he pulls up, as silent as someone in an automobile can be, to her front door and sits, shaking, in the driver's seat, all he can think is  _she is perfect, she is beauty, she is she is she is._  And he's proven right when she walks out of the front door, wearing a brand-new dress (brand-new to him only—it was one she had made herself, deft as she was at sewing) with her hair tied high on her head in a ponytail. She clutches a small, worn purse, her heels clicking gently on the wooden steps as she walks towards him, glancing about. He leans over and quickly opens the door from the inside, though the shifter sticks into his stomach as he does so—it's worth it so she can get in his car with ease.

So they can _leave_ , find somewhere they can be alone together, somewhere to hold hands and just  _talk_. As he starts up the car, Arnold glances over at her and feels his cheeks go pink—his hands tighten on the steering wheel as she leans a bit closer, pressing a swift, perfect kiss to his cheek. Their drive is quiet, as it always is, he too afraid to speak, she too comforted by his mere presence there to break the silence. It isn't long before they pull off into an empty lot, cleared of trees, making way for a development of some sort—and he wonders if he might buy a house there some day, when he's making money and the ring in his pocket fits on the finger of a certain girl. As they pull to a stop, Nadine laughs, her fingers creeping towards his.

"Hello,  _Mis_ ter Cunningham," she says teasingly, a smile on her lips—full, thick, sweet lips, lips he wants to feel against his own again. So, instead of postponing it, he shakes a little and leans towards her. When she closes the gap, he feels his heart lift and all his indecision melts away—they should go  _out_  this time.

Parting, he reaches up and touches her face, a thick, slightly-damp palm pressed to her cheek for an instant before he pulls it back, bashful again. "H-Hullo…Nadine. Uh,  _no_ , no, dangit, um—M-Miss Hutchison…?"

With another laugh, soft and just the slightest bit seductive, she moves in for another kiss and receives an enthusiastic one almost immediately. His hands go to her hair, careful not to disturb it too much, just running along it to feel it beneath his fingers. She holds his shoulders, scooting closer across the seat towards him until their knees brush against each other. He gasps a bit as he pulls back, as he always  _does_ , because he's still not used to having limbs touch without shame.

"Arnold." She grips his leg, eyes fiery as she leans in conspiratorially close. "Arnold, maybe…we could  _go_  somewhere?"

His throat tightens, and he shifts away—he's almost pressed against the door of the car. It had occurred to him only moments before, but now, faced so clearly with the idea of actually taking her – _her_ , beautiful, flawless, perfect  _her_ , colored  _her_  – somewhere where other people might  _see_  them, his heart suddenly feels as if it's been torn in two, so he just squeaks weakly and tries to figure out how best to word his response.

"Uh… _Nadine I don't know i-if that's a good idea or not I mean you're a colored a-and I'm_ —" It all comes out in a blur, spilling from his lips with seemingly no way to stop it. She stares at him, though, and his words slow to a trickle. " _Uh_."

"You—You don't want to—"

" _No_ , no, I  _do_  wanna, uh…but…we  _can't_ , Nadine, I don't wanna get in  _trouble_ , I don't…want  _you_  to get into  _trouble_ , th-that'd be—d'you know what they  _do_  to—to— when—"

She swallows, looking away from him for a moment. She  _does_  know. She  _does_  know, and she just doesn't want to think about it. "Fine. Yes. Okay." With a laboured sigh, she leans her head on his shoulder—when he squirms, she refuses to move, because they aren't in danger  _here_.

With the slightest groan, he leans his cheek against her temple and lets his hands drop onto the seat, though one ends up in the girl's lap—he tries to tug it back, but she holds it there, insistent. " _Nadine_!" He bites his lip, glancing around at their remote surroundings. "I-I don't think we should,  _uhnh_ —"

" _Arnold_. I love you." It comes out choked, tears starting to well in her eyes. He notices and yelps, leaning in to kiss her again—she stops him, though, pulling away. "I  _love_  you, and…and I don't care what  _happens_ , as long as we—"

" _Wait!_ " he shouts, holding her face as he remembers the small lump in his pocket. It's been practically burning a hole through the fabric, though it's only now that he truly recalls what it's there for. His fingers dip in and start to try and catch it, small as it is – he thought of how thin and delicate her fingers are, how slim and breakable they appear, as he bought it and now even as he holds it again – so that when he pulls it free, she can see the tiniest sparkle it gives off. "N-Nadine, I—"

She gasps, hands going to her mouth and eyes open wide. "You— _oh_ , my  _Lord_ —A-Arnold, this is…is this  _really_ …"

" _Yeah_ , hehnh, uhm, I-I—I… _oh_ , jeez louise— I-I love you  _too_. I—I love you more than  _anything_ , Nadine! More than m-my—than  _everything_ , I-I don't know how to  _say_  it, b-but—but I don't  _ever_  wanna leave you.  _Ever!_  So…s-so, even though we can't, uh…get… _married_ …" He takes her hand with his own and pretends he's not shaking like a leaf, though his tremors make it hard for him to slip the ring onto her finger. "I wanted to… _heh_ , m-maybe pretend, uh, like we're  _going_  to!"

It's only when he feels the slow ache in the back of his head that he realizes she's tackled him, her lips frantically pressing a "yes" against his neck, steadily heading upwards towards his mouth. He can only manage a quiet " _oh_ " before they're kissing again, fast and desperate, as if it's their last night together. When they part again, Arnold laughs.

" _Heh_ , uh, so…that's a  _yes_ , right?"

* * *

It had been a while since graduation, but Arnold had managed to keep in touch with his most unlikely friend—Kevin Price, the boy on the fast track to success, working as an assistant at the Utah State Legislature though he'd only been out of school for two years. It's on a lunch date that he next meets up with him, his palms still sweaty as the memory of his proposal floods back.

"Arnold? Are—gee, Arnold, are you okay? You look kinda…" He tilts his head to the side just slightly, and it's all Arnold can do not to be reminded of his girl – his  _fiancée_ , he realizes with a mixture of giddiness and heartache – until the man quirks his eyebrow. "Sweaty."

" _Whaaaat_ , no! No,  _hah!_  No, uhnh, I-I'm just…sweating. A bit." He laughs, loud and awkward, hands tight on the edge of the table. He  _should_  be eating his sandwich, but he feels a bit too queasy to even try. " _Hah_ , yeah, uh…wh-what were you saying?"

"Oh, I was just talking about this whole… _movement_  that's starting up. It's ridiculous."

"Uh." The bottom drops out of his stomach, and he clears his throat. He has the oddest feeling he knows exactly what Kevin is talking about, and that he won't like it one bit. "What…what movement?"

Shaking his head, his friend looks vaguely  _excited_ —more time for him to talk, Arnold supposes. "The…well, I think it's called the  _civil rights_  movement. It's just—well, the  _Negros_  feel they aren't being treated  _fairly_ —can you believe that? They're just as free as  _we_  are to live with their own kind!" He sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair. " _I've_  heard there are even people  _protesting_  in other states—can you believe that?"

Arnold can only just barely chuckle, trying to force thoughts of Nadine, her sweet grin and quick, soft hands, out of his head for the time being. It's not like he's forgotten that their relationship is frowned upon at best, though "illegal" is a far more likely descriptor, it's just that it cuts down to his heart and makes him reconsider his feelings for her. He's hurting more people than he would even be helping if he keeps it up. With an aching twinge, he takes a deep breath and tells himself not to think so hard—that's Kevin's job.

"Heh, uhnh, but—but don't you, uh, think that—that maybe they're kinda…not…wrong? I-I mean, uhnh, w-we could always…y'know. Let 'em, uh—"

" _Arnold!_ " Kevin gives him a look that he's gotten quite used to seeing—exasperation mixed with haughtiness, because Arnold is an idiot and everyone he talks to  _isn't_. It's a look that Nadine has _never_  given him before in all the months they've known each other, and he feels bitter bile rise in his throat. "We can't  _give in_. If we  _do_ , next they'll want to…to  _run_  for  _office!_  Can you imagine? A _colored governor!_ "

"Well…o-okay, but…what about in the Church? We're s'posed to—to let  _everyone_ , uh, join, but—but if they can't take the—"

" _Seed of Cain,_  Arnold, they're the seed of  _Cain_ —this is all  _basics_ , how could you not  _know_  this? Gosh, you'd think you're becoming a…a  _communist_  or something!" He sips at his glass of water, having finished his sandwich long ago. "Darn commies are going to be the  _downfall_  of this nation, trust me. It's bad enough that there's a  _Democrat_  in the  _White House_ …"

Arnold tunes him out, though, his cheeks flushed as he numbly takes a bite of his sandwich. It tastes like ash, but it's better than nothing. Kevin's mouth keeps flapping open and closed, and he wonders for a moment if it's better that he pretend to listen instead of blatantly ignore him as he's been trying to do. It's hard to muster up the effort, though, because as he talks, all Arnold can do is think of  _her_ —think of her, alone, without him—think of her in his arms as she was only a few days ago—think of  _both_  of them, together, walking hand in hand down the street openly, without fear.

" _Arnold_ , I  _mean_  it, are you even  _listening_  to me?"

"I-I have a  _girlfriend!_ " is the first thing that comes out of his mouth in response, and he quickly turns bright red, trying to think of ways to disentangle himself from the trap he's stumbled into.

Kevin just blinks. "Uh.  _Right_. As I was  _saying_ …"

Oh. Right. He's talking to  _Kevin_. With a quieter, no less nervous laugh, he goes back to his sandwich and thanks Heavenly Father for making his friend so self-centered.


	4. 1962

" _There were no neutrals in the war in heaven. All took sides either with Christ or with Satan. Every man had his agency there, and men receive rewards here based upon their actions there, just as they will receive rewards hereafter for deeds done in the body. The Negro, evidently, is receiving the reward he merits_."

– Joseph Fielding Smith,  _Doctrines of Salvation_ , 1954-56

* * *

**1962**

Arnold has a record player, and rarely is it ever out of use. It sits in the corner of his living room, a handsome addition to the sparse furnishings—he hasn't had much opportunity to purchase many more, considering he spent most of his money on the stereo system itself. Still, though, his funds are such that he can still afford to buy a few records here and there, because he has a new goal.

"Nadine! Nadine, uh, hi…" Twirling the cord of his telephone around a thick finger, he laughs that indescribable laugh and looks about. He's cleaned, he's ironed his shirt, he's tamed his hair—she is going to come over for the first time, and they're going to be alone. "Uh, are you…busy today, 'cos, uh, I don't have to work!  _Hah_ , isn't that  _swell?_ " He bites his lip, eyes tracing back over to the record player. "Yeah…yeah, just  _you_  and  _me_ , um, if that's…what you wanted! Yeah? Okay! Yeah, hah, I'll…see you then!"

A pause.

"I  _love_  you! Okaybye."

Even if they can't go out dancing with other couples, they can have fun all the same at home.

—

When the doorbell goes off with its usual  _bzzt_ , Arnold rushes straight for the door. His hair is as slicked back as it will ever be, curls fighting valiantly against the massive amounts of pomade he's used, and his shirt is clean and free of stains, even after dealing with a far-too-bubbly pot of spaghetti sauce that he ended up burning anyway, so he feels he's ready to face his paramour. With a broad grin, he swings open the door: " _Nadine_ , it's so great…to…"

He only falters when he comes face to face with Kevin Price, his best friend and, now that he thinks about it, original dinner date for the night.

"Uh."

Kevin seems only slightly fazed as he glances about the apartment, taking note of the crooning coming from the record player in the corner, and the scent of burnt food. His nose wrinkles. "Arnold, I _don't_ think I said I wanted to have dinner  _in_  with you tonight, did I?" He manages to chuckle, though a brow is raised in confusion. Apparently, he's forgotten all about their few (very,  _very_ few, now that Arnold thinks about it) talks about the lady in his best friend's life, which makes it hard for Arnold to formulate a response.

" _Eh-heh_ , no, uh, I kind of…forgot! About our…arrangements?" He gulps, tugging uncomfortably at the tight collar of his shirt. "Dinner. Thing. I'm—someone else is coming over!"

Brows are furrowed in response. "Someone  _else?_  From—work, or…Arnold, you didn't  _tell_ me you had another friend!" Arnold only  _just_ picks up the hint of jealousy in Kevin's strained reply, and isn't sure if he should feel glad for it, or even more traitorous.

"No, uh, not from work!"

"From…well,  _gosh_ , what else do you even  _do?_ "

He laughs, and it's strained enough that Kevin looks even more concerned than before. "Not much! But, uh, it's not a co-worker, o-or a, um…friend. I-It's kind of a—"

Blink, blink. Oh. The lights go on in Kevin's head, and the man still standing in the entrance to the apartment winces as a few steps are taken towards the truth. "You have a  _date_."

"I—have a  _girlfriend_ , uh, remember? I've  _told_ you before…?"

He's not listening, pushing past the boy to glance around and make sure everything is in tip-top shape for a  _lady_ to come visit. "Now, while I don't know that I  _approve_ of you going around with girls in  _private_ , as long as you aren't…being  _unchaste_ , I can't say that I'm not happy for you, Arnold!" Kevin pauses as he realizes he's just used a double negative and sees Arnold struggling with decoding it out of the corner of his eye. "What I mean to say is…it's about  _time!_  You're  _how_ old, Arnold?"

"I'm twenty-two," he announces, a little awkwardly. His tie isn't straight, his tie isn't tied  _right_ , and he has to fix it before Nadine gets there or, even worse, Kevin  _notices_. "Twenty-two isn't a bad age! Lots of people aren't married at twenty-two!"

" _Lots_ of people actually went on their  _mission_. You don't have much of an excuse, buddy." He sniffs, chin held up. Arnold privately recalls how Kevin was sent to Dildo, Newfoundland, in Canada, and how he doesn't like to talk about it for fear of letting everyone else know how badly their mission had gone. No one, he always tells Arnold, needs to know anybody's business but their own, though he sure doesn't seem to mind hypocritically sticking his nose in the business of his best friend. Dusting off the front of his own shirt, Kevin marches over to the record player and promptly switches it off. "You  _really_ need to listen to some more  _righteous_ music, Arnold. Rock and roll and  _jazz_ and  _swing_ are all just… _ugh_."

" _I_ like it."

" _You_  are wrong, then!" With a haughty snort, he shakes his head and presses a condescending pat to the other young man's shoulder. "So. What's she like? Good Mormon girl, I suppose—"

"Uh." Gulp. Arnold shifts away, straight for the record player. "You know, m-maybe you're  _right_ about jazz and rock and roll and stuff like that, I  _think_ I might have something  _better_ in here _somewhere_!" He shuffles between the same five records over and over again, just to look busy. He can't let it slip, he  _won't_ let it slip, because he's Arnold Cunningham, and he'd be darned if he wasn't the best liar that Salt Lake had ever known.

" _Arnold_." Matronly and stern, Kevin moves to stand behind him. "Tell me about this  _girl_."

He supposes he must, because he knows that Kevin will only make him feel more and more like a child the more he refuses. "She's…a  _really_ nice girl, Kevin, and she's  _sweet_  and  _kind_ —"

He narrows his eyes at him, and his foot taps a menacing beat against the linoleum of the kitchen floor. He's suspicious of everything now, sniffing at the spaghetti sauce and wrinkling his brow. He knows something is up, and he  _definitely_ knows when his best friend is lying. Why did he think he'd be able to sneak one past Kevin Price? No one could. He was too good at sniffing out falsehoods to ever possibly fool.

"Does she go to our meetinghouse?"

He gulps. "Uh, no."

"Our  _tabernacle?_ "

"Heh, um, no, sh-she—"

Kevin's brows are furrowing more and more, his cheeks reddening in what might be anger and might also be embarrassment, but is most likely disappointment. "Has she ever set foot in a  _temple?_ "

"Sh-She's not, uh, I mean, it's—sh-she's, uh—"  _Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it_ —

With a loud sigh, Kevin moves to the dinner table, flopping into a chair with a resigned look on his face. Once again, Arnold Cunningham is proving himself to be the world's most disappointing friend. "She's not  _Mormon_ , is she?"

Well, that wasn't what he had been afraid of saying, but he knew that in Kevin's eyes, it would probably have been just as bad.

—

"A  _Baptist?_ "

Alright, Arnold could handle this. They were just having a nice, friendly discussion about his (formerly) secret girlfriend that was sort of turning sour, but everything would soon be working in his favour, so long as he could get Kevin out of the house as soon as possible. As shocked as he was by her religious affiliation, he's going to be far more upset if he finds out that she's not the pure snowy creature he imagines.

"Uh." He frets. Hesitates. Wrings his hands. "Y…es. She's a Baptist. Uh. But—I'm proselytizing to her! I go to visit her – a-and her father is there when I do, so we're not  _alone_  – and we  _talk_ , Kevin, we talk! About Mormon stories, a-and the  _Book_ …"

Puffing up like a particularly wiry rooster, Kevin didn't seem to be comforted by the explanation. "You're still dating a Baptist girl! How did you two even  _meet?_ "

"Well, um." Okay. Okay, he can just tell him the truth, at least until he gets to the part about finding her in that forbidden area that lay west of Second West. "I was driving around, because I just…like to  _drive_ sometimes! And I have such a hard time w-with streets and stuff…I ended up at her father's  _store_ , uh, his name is Mark Hutchison, and—"

"He owns a store?" That piques his interest. "Does she work there?" Hardworking girls meet Kevin's approval, as Arnold knows well from their days in school together.

"Yes! That's how—why I met her! I needed directions, but, uh, she was just…" He takes a deep breath, then sighs it out all at once. His memories of her when they first met are just as vivid as they were years ago, and Arnold is thankful for that fact. "She  _is_  just…so  _pretty_." Or beautiful, or perfect. Or, that nagging little voice in the back of his head reminds him,  _brown_. "So, um, we started _talking_ , and then, uh…"

Holding up a hand, Kevin silences him. "Well…if she plans on  _converting_ , I can't see  _too_  much of a problem. Though I don't know  _why_  you were planning on having a date in here with her all  _alone_." He pauses, a thought suddenly hitting him. "Well, you know, I should probably stay then, huh? Then I can meet her,  _and_  act as chaperone!"

" _Uh_ —"

"You  _know_ , if she  _really_ is interested in becoming a Latter-Day Saint, I could always have  _Martha_ take her under her wing! You know my sister would do  _anything_ to help out a new member of the flock…"

"That's  _really_  not, uh—"

 _Bzzt_ goes the doorbell, and oh God, she's here, and Kevin heard it, and he slowly makes his way to the door to answer it which is good in a way because Arnold is glued to the spot, but bad in a whole bunch of different ways that he doesn't even want to  _think_ about.

"Arnold, this night is just getting better and  _better_! I think you're really turning your life around now, buddy, and we  _both_  know you could definitely use a  _feminine_ influence, if you catch my drift!" With a hearty chuckle, he pulls the door open and keeps smiling.

And keeps smiling. And keeps smiling.

"Uh, hello, Miss, may I help you?"

Nadine is dressed to the nines as she always is, dress pressed perfectly with nary a hair out of place. Clutching her purse at her waist, she blinks and looks over the man who stands in the doorway. Quizzically tilting her head to the side, she opens her mouth to try a question, then shuts it again to rethink it.

"I  _said_ , may I help you, Miss?" repeats Kevin, brows furrowing and adding a good dose of confusion to his polite smile. "Are you  _lost?_ "

"No…no, I'm, um, I'm not lost, Mister. I'm just…looking for Arnold Cunningham?" That sounds like an appropriate question to ask a strange white man who slowly advances into the hall towards her, further blocking the entrance to the apartment.

His face relaxes, and he nods quietly, as if he understands. " _Oh_ , you must be from his  _work!_  Let me guess—he forgot his watch, right? I, uh, bought him that watch he always wears when we both graduated, because his parents didn't really have the money to give him a nice present, y'know—"

"Um. No, I…I'm here to have  _dinner_ with him? He  _does_  still live here, right?"

"Excuse me?"


End file.
